


The Theft Of The Bruce-Partington Plans (1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [156]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Plans, Police, Politics, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 20:52:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11448846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Events in the South China Seas bring a strange case of treason and betrayal for Sherlock, who also has an interesting familial encounter to deal with as well.





	The Theft Of The Bruce-Partington Plans (1895)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginger_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_angel/gifts).



After our run of animal cases that had ended in near-disaster, it was another of those idiosyncrasies of Sherlock's 'job' that two cases involving plans happened not only in the same year, but were also documented consecutively in my casebook files. Though the outcome of the second case came as a rather greater shock than the first.

In explaining the events surrounding this case, I must first make the 1930s reader conversant with the circumstances that linked my friend to a remote set of islands in the South China Sea, thousands of miles away in the Far East. In the early years of the nineteenth century, it was not unknown for adventurers rich enough to afford their own mercenaries (the equivalent of the medieval baronial army) to go off and conquer some part of the world which they then ruled as their particular fiefdom. It was Imperial policy to tolerate these eccentrics as long as they toed a pro-British line, providing naval cover in return for not having to conquer and maintain the territories themselves from distant London. The official phraseology for such entities was Benign Anglophile Territories, or B.A.T.s, which term was, coincidentally, also used for some of the people who founded and ran them!

Not long after the famous Mr. Stamford Raffles founded the great port of Singapore, another great explorer, Mr. Amadeus Bruce-Partington, had built his own little corner of England on the Stour Islands, a small strung-out archipelago that consisted mostly of the capital, Bruceville, on the largest island, Partington (modesty was not, it seems, a problem for him!). The islands had been sufficiently far removed from anywhere of interest for him to remain unmolested at that time, and he had lived out his life in peace. 

By the time that he died, however, things had changed.

+~+~+

Sherlock was a creature of habit in many ways, so when he went to the gymnasium in the morning instead of his usual afternoon one day, I wondered at it. He was also gone for an hour and a half longer than usual, and whilst I assumed this meant he was having lunch there, it seemed a long time without him.

The answer came – literally – on his return to Baker Street. I saw his cab pull up, and raised an eyebrow as I heard him come in and start running up the stairs. I wondered what the emergency was, but before I could react, he was through the door.

“John!” he panted. “Need you! Now!”

Sex in the middle of the day was unusual, but I would do anything for my friend. Though I had not realized just how eager he was; he was undressed and on me before I was half done, almost ripping my clothes off and dragging me to my room. He all but threw me into the bed, and before I could say anything he was on me, still smelling of the sweat he had built up.....

I may have been no detective, but I could still put two and two together, and sometimes end up with an even number between three and five. As my friend tried to wrap himself around me, I knew. He was scenting me, which had to mean that we were expecting the sort of company that would know what we had been up to. Which meant Sherlock's family. I suppose that I should have been annoyed at the presumption and using me like some sort of rag, but I knew how insecure he could get at times like this, so I just lay back and let him get on with it.

When I had been thoroughly doused in Sherlock's scent, he seemed to finally calm down and relax against me, his hand gently rubbing our cocks against each other. This was good, the sort of halfway house towards orgasm where we could both gather our breaths before the final ascent (we were not teenagers any more, either of us!). He finally looked me in the eyes, and seemed almost apologetic about what he had done. I gently ran my hands up and down his arms, and kissed him on the lips.

“I understand”, I said quietly. 

“I should not have done that”, he said, seeming almost angry with himself. “I had no right.....”

“You are my true love, and you had every right”, I cut in. “Besides, I did not exactly try to stop you, did I? Tell me, which Holmes family member shall we shortly have the 'pleasure' of seeing?”

He blushed, adorably.

“Father”, he muttered.

“Then you had better take me before he arrives”, I grinned. “We want to make a thorough job of it, do we not?”

He looked at me with such gratitude that it nearly broke my heart. Though within two minutes I had lost the ability to register any further thoughts, as he eased himself inside me and pushed rapidly towards orgasm. I waited until he was most of the way there, then hissed “pull out!” to him. He looked at me in surprise, but did so, looking almost disappointed.

“On me!” I told him. He looked at me in surprise, but he quickly finished himself off, coming all over my chest. I immediately began to rub it in, drowning in his beautiful scent whilst he looked at me as if I were some kind of god.

“Let us hope that he is on time!” I grinned, kissing my lover deeply before getting stiffly off the bed and reaching for my dressing-gown.

+~+~+

Like any great nobleman, Sir Charles took his son's mate's utterly wrecked appearance in his stride, though I noticed that he did sniff the air. Sherlock had scented me so thoroughly that the people up the other end of Baker Street could probably smell it!

The nobleman placed two slim brown files on the desk before speaking.

“I am to assume that you know about Mycroft and Ranulph, and their efforts to get you disinherited?”

Sherlock nodded. We were sat around the table, the two of us notably close together. Thank Heavens that Sherlock wasn't doing anything under the table, at least this time!

I caught the slight smile that creased his lips and remembered, too late as usual, his uncanny mind-reading abilities. I sent up a silent prayer to God for... well, just in case.

“That is their right”, Sherlock said, moving slightly closer to me. “I presume that in their filial way, they are waiting for you to pass on, then hoping that they can somehow get rid of Luke and Anna before turning their fire on me.”

“Most probably”, Sir Charles admitted, as if his sons trying to do each other over or just waiting for him to shuffle off this mortal coil was the natural order of things. “I have been down to see Lucius, and I thought that it was time I saw you. And your partner.”

I jumped at the appellation. There was the very slightest of flickers at the corner of Sherlock's lips. 

“You are welcome here”, he said. “As are Mother, Luke and Anna. Possibly even Gaylord, if he leaves his pranking tendencies at the door.”

Sir Charles nodded, and gestured to the files he had brought.

“There is certain useful information about the activities of both Mycroft and Ranulph in those”, he said. “Should they move against either of you, you may feel free to use it. It will probably ruin them, but it would be of their own doing. Ranulph is possibly the greater danger; at least he has lately had the sense not to voice his opinions of your lifestyle in front of his mother. My dear wife delivers a mean uppercut, as our eldest son has of late re-discovered the hard way.”

I smiled at that.

“Thank you”, Sherlock said, taking the files. 

Sir Charles looked around the room curiously.

“Have you not thought of a house of your own?” he asked.

I had privately wondered that too, and had silently prayed for Sherlock to never even consider it. I had come to love 221B, and would never wish to leave it. At least not until I retired.

“John and I are happy here”, Sherlock said, taking my hand. “I see no reason to change what works.”

“Indeed”, his father said, standing up, and I knew that he had taken the unspoken inference behind his son's words. “Then I shall wish you both good day.” He gave me a pointed look. “Take good care of my son, doctor.”

And with that he was gone. I silently vowed that, whatever my feelings towards his family, I would always take good care of Sherlock.

+~+~+

It was perhaps typical that, just a couple of hours (and two celebratory orgasms) later, Inspector Henriksen called round to request our help in a case. He raised an eyebrow at the still pungent scent in the room, and I thought I saw the slightest of smiles creasing his lips. Mercifully he refrained from commenting on it, moving straight to the business that had brought him here.

Coffee-cake that day, as if you had to ask.

“It is damn rare for me to have a case, these days”, he grumbled. “The Metropolitan Police Service seems to think that if we fill out enough forms, crime will grind to a halt. I swear, if the criminals had to put up with the same paperwork that we did, they would not have time for half the mischief they get up to!”

I smiled at his indignation. Sherlock's next remark, however, caught me off guard.

“How is Bacchus?”

The dark-skinned man stared at him in astonishment.

“Freaky mind-reading consulting detective!” he groused. “How did you know?”

Sherlock smiled knowingly, and gestured to the folder that our visitor was carrying.

“Government documents have a distinct and unpleasant vomit-brown colour”, he said, "as well as a fairly rare red tape binding. And after his last visit here, my brother was left with the quite correct impression that he was no longer welcome at this address, at least until he improved either his manners or his attitude!”

He spoke sharply. The inspector raised an eyebrow, but did not ask.

“Yes, he asked me to approach you”, Henriksen admitted. “It's about the Bruce-Partington fiasco.”

There was a pointed silence.

“It has still not reached the papers?” the inspector said, clearly surprised. “Your brother was sure that it would be in today's later editions at least, but I got delayed at the station and I have not seen one yet.”

“Evidently 'it' has not”, Sherlock said. “Pray tell us exactly what 'it' is.

Henriksen took a bite of his cake – crumbs everywhere; the fellow was almost as big a grub as Sherlock - and began.

“The Stour Islands are one of those little corners of the British Empire that are not actually in the Empire”, he said, looking at his file. “Seventeen of them, only three of which – Partington, Cherington and Stourton – are inhabited. Until now it's pretty much been a private fiefdom for the Bruce-Partington family, but with the death of Mr. Amadeus Bruce-Partington, his son Levi, who lives in England, is considering selling them to the British government.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked.

“Two reasons”, Henriksen said. “First, because he does not wish his son Richard to inherit; I understand there is some bad blood there, caused primarily by his son marrying a German lady, and then openly telling his father that he should sign over the islands to him at once because he was 'too old'. Young people these days! And second, because the British government is considering the advantages of a decent naval base in the South China Seas, particularly given the instability in China.”

“So what exactly is the problem?” Sherlock asked.

“Three of the islands lie some distance from the rest, and less than a hundred miles from the island of Formosa, which the Japanese recently conquered from China”, the inspector said. “Stourton and two of the uninhabited islands, Great and Little Wolford. Brucetown, the capital of Stourton, has a natural harbour which is just about large enough for a naval base, and the Japanese have been sniffing around it as of late. Fishing close to and sometimes just across the sea border, sailing around and making notes for no good reason, just being generally annoying. Your brother says that whilst the British government is looking to keep friendly relations with the Land of the Rising Sun as regards British interests in the Pacific, they will not yield those islands.”

“The government is however prepared to give ground in other areas. Hence on Monday, when Mr. Levi Bruce-Partington returned to London from a trip to Scotland, he had some government bods over to his palatial mansion, Shipston House, in order to discuss the handover. We even posted a policeman outside it, but somehow, that very night, the handover plans were stolen.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together and thought for a moment.

“Two things immediately come to mind”, he said. “First, it is now Thursday, yet you have only now come to seek my aid. Why the delay?”

“Your brother was certain that the plans were stolen so they could be sold to either the Japanese or Chinese governments, who would then use them to extract further concessions”, Henriksen said. “However, neither government has yet made contact. He hopes therefore the delay means that the plans might still be recovered.”

“Curious”, Sherlock said. “There can be no gain in delaying matters; quite the reverse, it seems. Who were the 'government bods' attending?”

Henriksen looked at his file.

“Lord Quimby, from the Foreign Office, and his secretary, Mr. Thaddeus Danvers. And Mr. Quintus Pulborough, also from the Foreign Office; he's a specialist in Far Eastern what-not.”

“And, presumably, a man with connections”, Sherlock said. “Intriguing. Why were they assigned a police officer?”

“The layout at Shipston House is a bit odd”, Henriksen said. “The road itself is quiet, but there is a public footpath along the edge of the grounds, and only a wooden fence to keep people out. I had three men posted on eight-hour shifts there to guard the study where the plans were kept; Wells, Bullivant and Marks.”

“They do not seem to have done a very good job”, I observed.

“It was all Marks' fault”, Henriksen said morosely. “He claimed that the housemaid, one Maggie York, had been 'making eyes' at him. She denied it, of course; probably six of one and hald a dozen of the other! Anyway, he was talking to her at his post, and she said how cold it was all of a sudden. He opened the door, and someone had broken in through the glass window and taken the box with the treaty in it!”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Did no-one hear the glass breaking?” he asked.

“It was a professional job”, Henriksen said. “They coated the glass panel by the handle with some glue stuff, then pushed it in. It stayed in one piece, so no noise, and they got through the door that way. If the maid hadn't have been so chilly, it might well not have been spotted until the following morning.”

“The plans were taken, though”, I pointed out. Henriksen nodded.

“Footprints were found leading to and from the public footpath”, the inspector said. “But I know it was an inside job.”

“How?” I asked. He grinned at me.

“I learnt some things from all those books you write, doctor”, he said. “I took a close look at those prints. Nothing unusual at first; large boots, one track going from the wall, one leading to it. Except at one point.” He paused. “Just by the wall, the tracks overlapped.”

“So?” I asked.

“The tracks _in_ were on top of the tracks _out_ ”, he said. “So someone walked from the house to the path to create a false set of tracks, then back to the house again to create the illusion of a burglar. They were just careless.”

“You were indeed observant”, Sherlock praised. “Now, apart from Mr. Levi and his three guests, who else was in the house at the time?”

“No-one but the servants”, he said, “and worse luck, they are all accounted for. There are eight of them, but the butler was celebrating his fiftieth birthday, so Mr. Levi gave them all the evening off once dinner was out of the way. They are all each other's alibis. Except the maid who took up coffees, and unless she is a world-class athlete in disguise, there is no way she had the time, as the rest of them all said she was gone for barely two minutes. Not and got outside and back in again; there is no door leading out near where she would have passed.”

“So we are down to the gentlemen”, Sherlock said. “Let us consider the house owner first, as it is his property. Does he benefit in any way from the theft?”

“No”, Henriksen said firmly. “Far from it. There is the possibility that the government may back away from the sale, and he would get nothing. And he is a real patriot, so he would never sell to the Japs. He might leave the islands to his younger son, though.”

I thought privately to myself as, since the original Mr. Bruce-Partington had taken the islands from their native inhabitants, his family getting nothing was pretty fair. But I remained silent. Although I wished that Sherlock would not look at me as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. He probably did, but....

“Lord Quimby?” the annoying mind-reading consulting detective asked.

“Lord Thomas Quimby, fifty-four and very sure of himself”, Henriksen said, disdainfully. “It may be possible that upheaval in that part of the world would mean more work for him, but his sort are in demand everywhere as it is. I don't like that runt of a secretary of his, though, Mr. Thaddeus Danvers. He is just a little too polished, and from what little we know of his, he seems to like spending money a whole lot. I can see him taking the Japs' penny.”

“But the plans have not yet been sold, apparently”, Sherlock said. “What about Mr. Pulborough?” 

“He may have some motive”, Henriksen said. “He retired from the government last year, but his expertise in the area led to his being called back. I hear he's being paid handsomely for his extra service, all out of yours and my taxes, of course. I made some initial inquiries, and it seems that he may be in some financial bother; he incurred a lot of legal expenses over a disputed inheritance a while back. And I distrust anyone with a name like Quintus!”

Sherlock nodded, then looked hard at the detective. I was surprised; he only used that look on people who were not being straight with him.

“Victor”, he said slowly, _“what are you holding back?”_

It was, on reflection, one of the rare times that I had heard Sherlock use the inspector's Christian name. The man looked ready to swear.

“Bloody hell, I really am going to start using you to get confessions out of people at the station!” he groused. “All right. The theft happened just after the changeover between Wells and Marks. I... I have had some concerns over young Wells. There was some money from a case a few months back that went missing whilst he was in charge of the evidence room. I almost didn't spot it, but when I did, it immediately turned up elsewhere in the station. And I know the man is hard-up, with a young family and all.”

Sherlock nodded sadly.

“The perils of power”, he said. “It corrupts many who touch it, even police officers. Tell me, when the three men went to the house, I assume that they did not plan to stay the night, otherwise you would have included their valets in your list of servants?”

“They did not”, Henriksen said, “but they have since joined them. Your brother says that the government is kicking up a fuss and wants the whole thing sorted by this weekend, one way or another. And of course, all three want to leave.”

“Governments want a lot of things”, Sherlock said. “Rather like children. Whether they should be given what they want is another matter entirely. But as it is still early, I dare say that the doctor and I can make time for a trip to the house. Where is it, pray?”

“Notting Hill, not that far”, the inspector said. “We could take a cab now, if you are ready.”

“For the British Empire?” Sherlock smiled. “Always!”

+~+~+

I would not like to have called Shipston House a Gothic monstrosity. It was far, far worse. It looked like someone had drawn up a list of the twenty most horrible things that they could have done to a building, and then condensed them into this one..... nightmare. The only redeeming factor was the screen of trees which doubtless spared the neighbours from having to see what had landed in their midst. If intelligent alien life saw this when they came to Earth, they would surely decide that Mankind was beyond hope, and blast the planet to smithereens!

I had taken the opportunity afforded by the cab-ride to look at the statements of the three men, and found that each had left the room at some point during the evening. The two government ministers had gone to use the water-closet, and Mr. Danvers had gone outside 'for some fresh air'. My suspicions of the man only increased at that, and when I finally met him, I felt that they might have been justified. He was basically a dark-haired version of Mr. Bacchus Holmes, oozing a self-confidence that I hoped was unjustified. Lord Quimby was an amiable gentleman who looked much older than his years, and Mr. Pulborough a silver-haired gentleman who just looked bemused at the turn that events had taken. 

Our host was a fair-haired and bespectacled gentleman, looking rather younger than his fifty years. I expected Sherlock to want to interview them each at once, but he said that he wished to examine outside first, as it was already mid-afternoon and the light could not be expected to last for much longer. I followed him out, noting that neither our host nor the three 'imprisoned' guests seemed overly impressed. Hah, one of them soon would be!

“Let us consider the timeline”, Sherlock said, as we stood outside the window of the room whence the plans had been stolen. “Dinner concludes at seven-thirty, and the men adjourn from the dining-room to in there, in order to look over the plans. All four men are in the room, so there is no chance of anyone trying anything. Mr. Bruce-Partington places the documents in his brief-case, locks it, then leaves the room and locks that too. He is the last man out. Constable Wells is on duty outside the house, and has a key for emergency use only.”

“It must have been dark outside”, I said. To my surprise, Sherlock chuckled.

“The weather last Monday was clear skies”, he said, “and it was a Full Moon. Although it is unlikely at that time of the evening, our perpetrator would have risked being seen by anyone anywhere on that path. The break-in must have occurred some time between eight and ten, with the later hours more likely.”

“Why?” I asked.

“We were told that the maid could detect the wind coming through the broken window”, he said. “The constable on duty inside the house would therefore have detected it as well.”

“Unless he was in on it”, I pointed out.

“Hmm”, was his only response.

He walked carefully across the lawn to the fence by the footpath. I followed him easily enough; it looked set to be another clear night, and the risen Moon was still almost full. Sherlock sighed as he examined the area by the fence.”

“It is well for Henriksen that he closed this area off”, Sherlock said, looking at the police markers. “Possibly there may be another clue here.”

If there was, either he did not find it or did not share it with me. We returned to the house, where Sherlock intercepted one of the footmen.

“Tell me”, he asked, “has it rained here of late?”

The man looked horrified, clearly suspecting some inner meaning to the question. When Sherlock continued to stare at him however, he seemed to relax a little.

“Not since the afternoon just before the robbery, sir”, he said at last.

Sherlock nodded, and walked on. I scuttled after him, wondering at his sudden interest in the English weather. 

+~+~+

Once we were back with the four gentlemen, Sherlock turned to our host.

“Mr. Bruce-Partington”, he said gravely. “I believe that I am close to resolving this case, although I must crave a further day's indulgence from you and your guests.”

“You know who stole the plans?” the man asked eagerly.

“No”, Sherlock said, “but I do know a way to find out.”

“How?” he asked

“Your rug.”

Mr. Bruce-Partington raised his eyebrows, and I suppressed a smile when his hand moved instinctively towards what was most obviously a poor quality hair-piece. Either that, or the aliens were already here and using a very poor disguise!

“Pardon?” he said.

“More precisely, the quality Turkish rug by the window in your study”, Sherlock said, and I knew from the twinkle in his eyes that he had phrased his statement quite deliberately, the bastard. “I have seen one like it on a case before. Although they are all but invisible to the human eye, one reason that it maintains its lustre is that minuscule pieces of gold thread are embedded into it. I also know that it rained just hours before the theft took place. No matter how careful he was, the thief will still have a number of those thread ends stuck to his boots. Unfortunately I have not brought it with me, but I have a chemical solution which reacts with the thread when applied. I will return home tonight, and bring it with me on the morrow. Naturally I will request all of you to surrender your boots as of now.”

“This is most inconvenient”, Mr, Danvers grumbled.

“If it clears me, then I have no objection”, Lord Quimby said. “I assume that you can return early tomorrow, sir?”

“As soon as I can”, Sherlock promised.

+~+~+

The next day, the three of us returned to Shipston House as promised. Henriksen had arranged for all three constables to be in attendance, presumably in case the guilty party made a run for it. I noted however that the inspector seemed ill-at-ease for some reason. Sherlock had taken longer than usual to pick him up from his station that morning, and I wondered why.

The study at Shipston Hall, though a decent size, felt crowded with ten of us crammed into it. Mr. Bruce-Partington had instructed his staff to pull out the folding-table however, and seven of us fitted easily around it, the three constables all standing. Sherlock placed a large bag on the top, and paused.

“This case has been all about money”, he said firmly. “It was perpetrated because the criminal believed, probably correctly, that he could obtain a large sum of money by selling a British government document to a foreign power. I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that, even though the documents were not at the time government property, legal counsel that I took last night informed me that it would still be regarded as treason, and that that the penalty for that offence is, quite rightly, death by hanging.”

If the air was not tense enough already, those words made it ten times worse. Sherlock opened the bag and extracted a large pair of boots.

“These are size ten”, he said. “They are also the boots worn by the criminal when he perpetrated the crime.”

“I am a size eight”, Mr. Danvers put in. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then turned to Henrksen. 

“You indeed learnt some things from the doctor's dramatic accounts of my cases”, he said, “and you did well to spot the fact that the footprints coming from the house overlaid the ones going to it. But, sorry though I am to say it, there were also two things that you missed.”

He paused, the looked at the young and now clearly alarmed Constable Wells.

“When he consulted me on this case, your inspector admitted, reluctantly I might add, that he had certain concerns over _you_ , sir”, he said, his voice strangely calm. “He was also worried because he knew, and only told me later when I challenged him over that fact, that of the seven men involved – Mr. Bruce-Partington, his three visitors and the three duty constables – you were the only person with size ten feet.”

He paused again.

“These boots, which match the footprints by the wall, were found in your locker last night. And on the sole, there is a faint piece of gold thread!”

“Hah!” Mr. Danvers said. “Got you!”

Sherlock turned and eyed him sharply. The man took a step back.

“You are not the only person here who believes what they see”, he said. “So to the two things that showed me the _real_ guilty party in this matter. First, the irregularity of the footprints, where the pressure applied to each step varied as if the person walking was unsteady for some reason. Either the person making the steps was drunk – and that was ruled out as they were in a straight line and evenly spaced throughout – or it was someone with smaller feet wearing larger boots.”

“The latter was clearly indicated, but in that case, it immediately threw a new light on the crime. Someone had not only stolen the plans, but had deliberately tried to incriminate Constable Wells here. Someone who had access to the police lockers, and could place the incriminating boots inside. Someone who was here when I mentioned the gold thread – which, by the way, I made up.”

Constable Marks made a sudden rush for the door, but his fellow constables quickly restrained him, and with the help of the other men soon had him handcuffed. He glowered at us from the chair.

“Your execution of this plan was almost flawless”, Sherlock said coldly. “Indeed, one of the few things to betray you was the unreliable English weather.”

“The weather?” I asked. He nodded.

“When he had gone off-duty at six o'clock that morning, Constable Marks had taken the chance to lay the footprints to and from the wall for use that night”, Sherlock said. “You were correct, inspector, when you saw that an inbound footprint overlaid an outbound one, except that that was entirely what the criminal here _intended_

_“But the inclement weather lets our criminal down. That afternoon there is a heavy shower, and the subsequent damp weather prevents the water from subsequently evaporating. Yet if the marks had been made _after_ the afternoon rain as we were supposed to believe, there would have been a small but detectable splatter by each footprint. There was none, so the prints were clearly made before the rain. And furthermore, not very long before, else there was the risk that they might be detected.”_

__

__

The prisoner growled at him. Sherlock continued.

“You arrived at the house before your duty began at ten o'clock that evening. It was dark outside, although there was a Full Moon. Your knowledge of criminals enabled you to break through the glass window silently enough, without Constable Wells, who was still on duty, hearing you. You took the plans, then went round to relieve him, hoping as it was late that the theft would not be discovered until the following morning, by which time you would have left for either the Chinese or Japanese Embassies. Indeed, the house had largely gone to bed, but unfortunately for you a maid felt the cold air coming through under the door, and you had to 'go and investigate'.”

“The plans, Mr. Holmes!” Mr. Bruce-Partington said urgently. “The plans!”

“You won't find them!” our prisoner sneered. “They're long gone.”

Sherlock smiled. 

“I think not”, he said. “Doctor, I believe the time is approximately five minutes after ten?”

I looked at him, puzzled by the _non sequitur._

“Yes”, I said uncertainly.

Sherlock strolled over to a large grandfather clock in the corner of the room, and only then did I notice that it was not working. He opened the panel door and reached in, extracting a rolled-up piece of paper, which he handed to Mr. Bruce-Partington. The man grasped it as if his life depended on it.

“When our villain was 'investigating', he realized that to have the plans on his person could be to invite disaster”, Sherlock said. “Since it would only take seconds to ascertain that the plans were gone, he had to find somewhere quickly. However, this fine old piece does not respond well to having official papers thrust into its works. I deduced from the delay in the papers reaching this country's enemies that the thief had been forced to hide them near the scene of the crime, which, Henriksen, was why I insisted on the room being sealed off and only you and Mr. Bruce-Partington maintaining the keys until my investigations were complete. Which they now are.”

The inspector shook his head in disbelief.

“Oh, and I suspect you will find that your villain was also responsible for that other past matter you ascribed to poor Constable Wells here”, Sherlock said. “For whom I have one final question.”

“Of course, sir”, the constable stuttered.

“Who knitted your socks?”

The man looked as if Sherlock was demanding the answer to the Meaning of Life, the Universe and Everything.

“My s..s...socks, sir?”

“Woollen garments, worn on your feet?” Sherlock said patiently, if a little sarcastically. Henriksen sniggered.

“My wife, sir.”

“Then you may tell that good woman that she inadvertently helped to clear your name.”

“She did, sir? How? Er, if you don't mind me asking?”

Sherlock smiled.

“I lied about the gold thread”, he said, “but I took care to examine the _insides_ of those boots in your locker. The socks that your wife knitted for you are dark green, whilst the standard police issue are blue or black. There were several threads inside those boots - but none of them were green. I knew, therefore, that you could not have worn them, and that your 'colleague' – and I use the word advisedly – was setting you up.”

“Thank you, sir!” the constable said fervently. 

+~+~+

“A bent copper!” Henriksen said in disgust as we drove away from the monstrosity that was Shipston House. “Just like I thought – except I fingered the wrong one!”

“That will always be a peril of the job”, Sherlock said consolingly. “Policemen spend so long working with criminals, so they see not just that crime brings rewards, but also how to avoid detection. There will always be bad apples like Constable Marks. You must just ensure they do not turn the whole barrel bad. And in your position, you can do just that.”

“I failed to spot Marks”, the inspector said morosely.

“But you knew that something was wrong”, Sherlock countered. “And all worked out for the best. A pleasant little case.”

I agreed, little knowing that our next case would be far from 'pleasant'. 

+~+~+

From a local case in the London area to a remote island off the Scottish west coast, where justice delayed will not be denied – and Sherlock and I would stand aside and let a murderer commit a _fifth_ murder.


End file.
